


The Writing Process ~ A Sestina

by DxTURA



Category: Original Work
Genre: Poetry, Sestina
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 15:05:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17082587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DxTURA/pseuds/DxTURA
Summary: My sestina that was published in my University’s literary magazine, 900 Chicon, this year. Sestinas are painfully difficult poems that require you to repeat the ending word in different set patterns. This was another favorite format of mine!Originally posted 4/18/17





	The Writing Process ~ A Sestina

Here on my desk lies lined yellow paper;  
I stretch my fingers, then grip my pen.  
I write with blue (not purple) ink,  
and allow my letters to follow the violin.  
A pause. I grab my coffee,  
and turn to another page in my book.

Two-hundred pages line this book,  
yet imperfections live on the paper.  
I have brewed another cup of of coffee  
and my hand trembles as it holds the pen.  
My fingers do not calm with the violin,  
and each digit? Riddled with ink.

My tool is shattered; here comes the ink,  
blue magma slinking its way to melt my book.  
For now, I hush that damn violin  
and discard my now ruined paper.  
I tell myself “trash that pen,  
and while you’re at it, grab more coffee!”

Now I have guzzled four cups of coffee,  
and request help from my purple ink.  
I pray that I don’t ruin this pen  
and scribble today’s talks into my book  
again. I flatten my paper,  
and _Third Wave_ ’s crescendo revives the violin.

This brazen violin-  
ear-grating, yet stops my coffee  
cravings. “I refuse to write on this soiled paper,  
I will not waste my ink!”  
I snatch my laptop and poise the book;  
my keyboard becomes my new pen.

With idle chit-chat documented, I drop my “pen,”  
I crawl into my bed, and hush the violin.  
I’ve tucked this tattered book  
away. The cup holds no more coffee.  
These hands of mine, marked in ink,  
mismatched fingerprints blot loose-leaf paper.

My paper and pen, now lain to rest.  
The ink sleeps, the violin does not peep  
until morning comes, and I battle with my coffee and book again.


End file.
